


catscratch fever

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [28]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Illustrated, M/M, References to Abortion, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nepeta has something important to tell Gamzee...</p><p>Takes place before "death of a seaman".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. cling

**== >Gamzee:  Try to sleep**

 

“Motherfucking move over.”

“ _You_ move over, clown.”

You’re navigating the darkness, pushing aside fat and muscle to get more room. The blanket was tossed on the ground hours ago; it’s too hot for it and too early (or late?) for this bullshit.

“You’re the pain in the ass who won’t get a bigger daybed.” you growl.

“You have your own place to sleep!” she hisses.

In this heat, the living room is a sauna. It’s better to lock yourself in a room with a good fan. “Why not just sleep in your motherfucking recuperacoon? That’s what it’s for!”

“I don’t want to! It… turns my stomach...”

“It turns your stomach? What kind of motherfucking excuse is that?”

“It’s not an excuse! I just smell sopor and it makes me want to puke!” She turns her back to you, “Just let me sleep and quit clinging.”

“I’m not motherfucking clinging.” you snarl.

The last person you want to be clinging on is the furbitch; not when you have a matesprit a trailer down from you. You spent most of the week with him and it’s still not enough; you still want to be all up inside your flushboy. Squeezing his glute. Biting his ear. Eating out his nook. You’d do the same with Nepeta but it isn’t the same and she’s been on pins and needles. She won’t let you get further than making out.

In the morning, things only get worse.

“What do you mean you’re motherfucking _quitting_?” you hiss.

It’s not dawn yet; birds chirp outside as the sky turns from black to blue. You’d nudged Nepeta awake since you usually head to the motels but she’s been sluggish in the mornings.

Nepeta lies on the daybed, palm on her stomach. “You heard me.”

“I thought we were making money.” you growl.

“Yeah, but at what cost?” Nepeta sighs. “I don’t want to end up like Thetas, Gamzee...”

Oh yeah. Thetas. Thetas who’s six feet under thanks to those UBK fucks. You didn’t know Thetas well but she was your clown sister and knew what mattered: respect, the gang, and blood.

“We’re making good money though.” 

“Yeah, and sooner or later the cops are going to be onto us. It’s always the little guys who get busted.” She gently kneads her stomach, “So I’m done, okay? I’d rather get a job that won’t get me arrested.”

“Easy for you to say, bitch.” You stand, “You can _get_ a fucking job.”

“So can you! Yeah, you’re an ex-con and a purpleblood but you’re young and only have one strike on your record. There are places that’ll hire you because you’re strong and if you graduate—”

_“Fuck you!”_

The response isn’t very creative but you’re too angry to be creative. It’s fine and dandy for her to walk away and leave you strung up to dry. That bitch. You’ve been in enough operations to know you can’t do it alone; you’re not dumb enough to think you’re firing on all synapses. And school? You hate school. It’s part of your shitty parole agreement to graduate but what’s the fucking point? Get your high school diploma and stay on welfare till you die because no one will hire you ever.

You feel calmer after ripping up all the pillows on the couch; fluffy cotton viscera piled on the floor as you sprawl out on the pull-out bed. You feel a bit relieved… but then Kurloz walks through the door, coming off another ‘job’.

He looks at the pillows, looks at you, and sighs. <<PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHY THE PILLOWS HAD TO DIE.>>

“Fuck you that’s why,” you growl.

Kurloz narrows his eyes. A minute later you’re in a headlock he’s not struggling to hold you in; he signs with his free hand, <<LET’S TRY THAT AGAIN.>>

“Yeah, I wrecked your shit. So what?” you growl, jerking in his grasp, “Not like I got money to rebuy shit.”

He lets you go, like casting a small fry back into the water. <<YOU’RE SMART ENOUGH TO ROB YOUR VICTIMS. HOW MANY SO FAR?>>

You glare at him. “You can count scars can’t you?”

<<I HOPE YOUR BROWNBLOOD CAN. IF HE’S NOT YOUR ACCOMPLICE.>>

“Don’t talk about Tav.” you growl, “Fucking butterfly Mom came over here yesterday and thought it’d be funny to kick my ass.”

Kurloz smirks, <<ITS IS FUNNY. IT’S THE FUNNIEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD.>> You growl but he ignores your threat. <<YOU’RE BUYING MEULIN NEW PILLOWS.>> He rolls his eyes. <<SHE THINKS THE WORLD OF YOU. I’D HATE FOR HER ‘SURROGATE SON’ TO LOSE FACE.>>

Meulin is nice to you and its confusing as fuck. You should hate her by every right. She’s a helpless little oliveblood whose only interests are fuckawful romance movies and arguing with Nepeta. She constantly drags you to Walmart, buying you shirts, shoes, and school supplies you barely use. It’s like having the mother you’ve been avoiding.

“I didn’t ask to be her ‘surrogate’,” you growl.

<<ITS NOT IDEAL FOR ME EITHER, BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO BUT GIVE YOUR MATESPRIT WHAT THEY WANT?>> Kurloz shrugs. <<ANOTHER MATTER IS MY DAUGHTER.>>

“I’m already more than fucking done with the furbitch.”

<<ALL THOSE TIMES YOU FUCKED, HAVE YOU EVEN BOTHERED WITH PROTECTION?>>

You hear that immediately put on your best poker face. Nepeta hasn’t been in morning sickness so you’d written it off as getting lucky but you’ve been in a sex dry spell recently. “What makes you assume we’ve been fucking so much?”

<<NEITHER OF YOU ARE ‘GENIUSES’. YOU BOTH DIVE FIRST AND THINK LATER.>>

“What does it matter?” you snort. “You gave her to me.”

Kurloz considers this, <<YES, I DID, BUT IF SHE’S JUST YOUR ‘SIDE MEAT’ WHY DO YOU LOOK SO APPREHENSIVE?>>

He strolls off to his room, with a smile on his face you want to claw off. You’re going to have to pack on the pounds if you want to win a fight with him. The bastard’s been a cocky fuck since he rejoined the Brotherhood. Even though you’re supposed to summon the Angel of Double Death and turn everything that ever has, is, or will be into nothingness. Everyone will collapse into the black hole and wipe everything clean.

Tavros included.

And Nepeta as well.

Not that it matters. No one but you understands the clockwork of the universe; the necessary breaking down the system. You have to end it. You don’t have a choice.

* * *

 

But later that day you’re staying close to furbitch. You can’t stand her but you feel tethered. When Nepeta goes out to Park Avenue to get a slushie, you follow not because you’re hungry but because some junkie stabbed a guy there last night. By evening, she’s had enough of your following.

“Give me my fucking space!” she snarls. She enters the trailer and goes directly to the kitchen.

“What are you bitching about?” you growl.

Nepeta takes out hamburgers from the fridge and puts them on the counter. “You’ve been following me all damn day and growling at anyone who gets close. It’s annoying! Go bother Tavros! He’s your _matesprit_.”

“He’s spending the day with the butterfly.”

Nepeta smirks and lays the jumbo skillet on the stove and fiddles with the knob, “You mean the one that kicked your ass?”

“He didn’t kick my ass. He caught me off guard.”

“And slammed your head into a wall. Only _Mom_ believes you tripped.” Nepeta growls, glaring at the oven. “Why won’t the fucking thing _light_?”

“Maybe because you’re a bitch?”

“Oh, go to he— _shit!_ ”

There’s a loud _foom_ and the air four inches from the oven flares out. Your instincts jump into action; grabbing Nepeta’s waist and pulling her from the oven.

“Shit! Step back, you idiot!”

You get lightly burned but it’s not terrible. The burner is finally on, sizzling the skillet. Nepeta’s eyes are the size of dinner plates but they aren’t on you, but on your hand resting on her abdomen. She’s as still as a board. You’re about to ask her what her problem is when you feel small twitching movements under the layer of fat.

“How long…?” you ask.

She doesn’t respond. Shaking, she moves from you and turns off the gas burner.

 _“How long?”_ you growl.

“A while now!” she snaps.

That’s not fucking helpful. It could have been from any numbers of encounters. Was it after the party? During the party? In the alleyway? Your first time with her? Now you’re looking at her body and realize you must have been motherfucking stupid to _not_ notice. There’s more weight around her middle. She’s been antsy about being far from home and fucking because who in the hell wants multiples?

“Shit.” This is the exact opposite of what you need right now.“Does Kurloz know?”

“I was… trying to figure out how to tell him.”

“Don’t sit on your ass. Tell him.”

“That’s why I’m afraid.” Nepeta looks over her shoulder at you. “He’s _so_ going to kick your ass.”

“I’ll clear out when you tell him.”

You leave the kitchen and fuck it, you leave the trailer. Your heart is going a mile a minute. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Soon you’re running and it’s on a high you can’t describe; like you got pumped full of that good shit back at Amethyst while the white suits watch you for the first reaction.

You stop running. Nearly keel over. Inhale. Exhale.

You’re having a panic attack.

You’re a disgrace to your lineage. What sort of highblood has a panic attack over knocking up some lowblood? If this were Alternia, you could just walk away from this shit or cull her for pestering you with it.

But that’s not reality. 

The reality is that Kurloz is going to skin you alive. The reality is that you don’t like eggs, grubs, or any of that shit. The reality is that you just don’t want _any of this._ Not now. Not ever. You should have told her to flush the grub out. This isn’t part of your plan. This isn’t what you set out to do. You just want everything to fucking end and this is throwing not just a wrench into the gears but the whole toolkit.

You’re going back. You’re going to go talk to that bitch. Just tell her how it is. It’s easy.

But you’re not moving. You’re frozen to the spot.

Fuck.

“Words don’t mean shit if you can’t put them into action, son.” is what your father would say. His voice was raspy, rattled like leaves dead in the wind from the Apernex trials. “The pen’s only mightier than the sword once the sword doesn’t cut the writing hand.”

He only talked like that when it was just you two. Things were simpler in Amethyst. Get up. Eat. Do chores. Do trials. Go to sleep. Then do it over and over again until someone gets the jump on you or the trials kill you. It wasn’t ideal but there were certainties to it. Patterns. A rhythm you could manage.

Now you’re what? Standing here in the middle of a soggy road; too afraid to go back to the trailer because there’s offspring you can’t provide for. You should just cut and run; stowaway on a boat and live an outlaw in Lew. It’s partially Brotherhood territory.

It might be a shithole but it’s better than staying here.

Where even in the fuck are you?

It’s getting darker by the second and the air’s thick with mosquitoes. The road is soggy and if there were street signs they’ve been knocked over or sunk into the mud. Above your head two weathered boots hang from electric wire.

Two Boot Drive. That’s one mystery solved. The next mystery: why are you here?

You walk down the road, looking at the trailers. The neighbors here breed out of control, stack trailers on top of each other and connect them with rickety stairs and piping for electricity and heat. Their poverty shows in the care of the lawn rings (or lack thereof) and the rust everywhere. You approach a familiar trailer, avoiding the tall grass and the junk hidden in it.

Why did you even come here? What are you expecting? You don’t knock. You just stand there; frozen feeling more idiotic but the minute for even coming.

You hear something from the backyard. You approach it slowly, hearing a low muttering in a language that you vaguely recognize. You find Feferi, bent over a plastic kiddie pool filled with rain water like a crone over her voodoo cauldron. She sputters not gibberish but Old Alternian. Even your fucked up skull can recognize it.

“Below the thunders of the upper deep; Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,” Feferi mutters, “Her ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep, The Carbuncle sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee…”

“Feferi.” you call but it’s useless when she’s having a fit. She wouldn’t recognize you if her life depended on it.

“About her shadowy sides: above her swell, Huge sponges of millennial growth and height,” she mutters, “And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell…”

She swivels her head towards you, then stands. When she’s like this, she moves like a broken puppet being dragged on unsteady strings. The fits have gotten worse and if you knew how to bring her out of them, you’ve forgotten.

“Unnumbered and enormous polypi, Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green…” She holds out her hands to you, trembling. “Hi-highblood, you must know you have erred. These rites are never be witnessed by none other than us tyrianbloods. There are secrets here. Mysteries that none shall know but my caste. I shall have to cull you, you must realize…”

Her touch is ice on your cheek, but then those delicately webbed fingers are on your throat. You don’t struggle. The pressure is only brief but then she rakes the hands away. Feferi looks at you, shaking with fear. She’s not having the fit any longer. You’re not sure if she wrestled it off or if it was suddenly subdued.

“G-Gamzee…?” She glances around, “What am I doing here? What are _you_ doing here?” She covers her mouth. “Did I call you? Did I… did I try to _hurt_ you?”

“Where’s…” but you hesitate at the word that comes next. “You’re not supposed to be alone.”

“Mom… Mom went to the st-store…” There are tears in her eyes, “G-Gamzee, I’m scared… it’s not getting any better…”

You take her hand. “You need to lay down.”

Her moirail should be the one to deal with this shit not you, but you’re not about to leave her alone. You lead her back inside and wrap her in a blanket. She’s sniffling and whimpering, like you’re little kids again. You’re supposed to be the big brother who scares all the monsters away. Yeah right. The only reason you’re here is because you’re afraid of your own monsters.

When she’s lying on her bed, you say, “Why don’t you just fucking abort? This shit ain’t worth risking your life, Fef.”

She shakes her head. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t you just shrug off what your religion says? Just this once?”

Feferi smiles sadly. “Faith isn’t faith when you toss it away just because it’s challenged. You wouldn’t do the same for your religion would you?”

You’re not sure about that anymore. You’re not sure about anything because shit’s been fucked up. “It ain’t worth you dying.”

“I know… but what can I do?” She touches her stomach, shuts her eyes. “It wouldn’t be fair to them. If I have to do it for medical reasons… then at least I can say that I gave it my all. That I tried to make things work but it just wasn’t in the gods’ plans in the end. I’d rather fight than run. It’s the stubborn streak in me; the same one you have.”

That stubborn streak has been doing jack all for you lately. Feferi sits up and leans against you. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry we left you in that terrible place…”

“It ain’t your fault,” you mutter, “You did the best you could.”

“I prayed. I prayed that they’d realize you were innocent and they didn’t and I’m so… _so sorry…_ ” she hiccups.

She’s the last person who should be crying about that but you let her because it’s better for Feferi to vent her feelings rather than let it build up. You’re both like that.

When she’s done crying, you kiss her on the forehead like you always did when she was upset. It borders on pale but you don’t push it; she’s got a paleboy and you’re not looking for one. Not anymore.

You walk to the front door but it opens. Meenah is standing there with an armful of groceries. You stare at each other awkwardly, then you nod, squeeze past her and run down the street. You guess there’s no avoiding fate. You found Feferi by chance. Maybe the gods are pulling you in direction of what’s inevitable. 


	2. fear

The light is on in the living room. The car isn’t in the driveway and you’re hoping Kurloz isn’t home yet. You enter the trailer and immediately your hopes are crushed because Kurloz is sitting on the couch. He’s not even watching TV. He’s just sitting there with his fingers drumming his knees. Waiting. The facepaint is fresh so he’s just come off the job. You stare at each other for a good minute.

Eventually he signs, <<SO THE PRODIGAL FATHER RETURNS?>>

“I live here too.” you growl. “Where’s furbitch at?”

<<MY DAUGHTER?>> Kurloz raises an eyebrow. <<SHE’S OUT WITH HER MOTHER. THEY’RE HAVING A LONG TALK ABOUT PARENTHOOD AND RESPONSIBILITY.>> He sighs. <<AT LEAST SHE’LL STAY AWAY FROM PHAXIN NOW.>>

His body language is relaxed. He’s breathing normally. You narrow your eyes. “…why are you so motherfucking… _calm_?”

Kurloz looks as serene as a highblood on a battlefield. There’s something else in the stare he gives you. Something condescending.

“You knew this whole motherfucking time she was knocked up.” you say.

Kurloz shrugs.

“And when were you going to tell _me_?” you growl.

He shrugs again and signs, still calm, <<IT WAS BOUND TO HAPPEN. YOU PUT TWO TEENAGERS IN CLOSE QUARTERS, THEIR HEAT CYCLES SYNCHRONIZE.>>

“It sounds like you set me up with her.”

The corner of Kurloz’s mouth twitches; then spreads out into a wide grin.

<<YOU SET YOURSELF UP. YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD JUST FUCK HER ON THE SIDE, LIKE THIS WAS ALTERNIA AND SHE YOUR PAIL-SLAVE. BUT YOU QUADRANTED WITH HER INSTEAD.>>

“Shut up.”

<<YOUR INSTINCTS KNEW WHAT WAS GOING ON AND YOU CHOSE TO IGNORE IT. WHY DO YOU THINK YOU GOT SO CLINGY?>>

“Shut up or I’ll rip your motherfucking throat out, Kurloz.”

<<WOULDN’T THAT UPSET YOUR KISMESIS?>>

He doesn’t even punch you for acting out of line; more like he ignores the smoke because that fire’s not worth putting out. The bastard’s quadrant-neutralized you. You should have known the fucker was up to something. Kurlozhas always been a schemer; even your father knew that. Instead of getting angry, you voodoo it up instead.

<<don’t stand there looking so motherfucking smug>> you answer, <<I’M THE ONE THAT’S STILL IN CHARGE HERE NO MATTER WHAT YOU SAY>>

Kurloz tilts his head. His voice vibrates in your skull, a hundred times louder.

<<INSTEAD OF TRYING TO INTIMIDATE ME, SHOULDN’T YOU BE MORE CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR OFFSPRING?>>

And just like that, he shatters your focus. Kurloz continues staring at you, unblinking and completely engrossed in his voodoo. Stupid motherfucking mute. He’s had all this time in silence to get stronger in his voodoo and not even show it. You shut your eyes, trying to regain your focus, strengthen your thoughts. You’re struggling to find the fear in him but every prodding vein you send out is met with a wall of Kurloz’s passive anger and calm assurance. Where in the shit did this come from? It was so easy before.

You realize now that it was too easy. It was a trap. It’s always been trap. He waited for you to get comfortable and cocky. Son of a motherfucking bitch. He’s a steel wall of tranquility and your fear is too loud, too jittery.

You admit aloud, in a croaky voice,

“I-I don’t have the motherfucking time to deal with this.”

His voice is rumbling, <<YES, YOU DO.>>

Your knees hit the floor. Anxieties are piling up on you. Your stomach churns as you start to feel dizzy.

“I-I’m to-too young.”

<<NO, YOU’RE NOT.>>

You look up and Kurloz stands over you: twenty feet tall with a ghoulish face; large fangs jutting out of his mouth. His voodoo is sinking into your brain, manipulating what you see. He’s found your weak spot and now he’s hammering at it. Your father told you chucklevoodoos are like water and the brain’s a dam; find one crack and it all rushes in.

<<YOU’RE AFRAID.>>

<<YOU’RE AFRAID OF ADULTHOOD AND REALITY.>>

<<I’VE LET YOU GET AWAY WITH A LOT, GAMZEE, AND NOT OUT OF DUTY BUT OUT OF PITY. YOU WERE SHUT AWAY. YOU NEVER GOT TO EXPERIENCE LIFE. I DIDN’T GIVE YOU MY DAUGHTER. I LET YOU HAVE HER. NEPETA WOULD _NEVER_ SUBMIT TO YOU. SHE’S MY MOTHERFUCKING _DAUGHTER_. SHE HAS HER MOTHER’S BEAUTY AND CUNNING, AND MY IRON WILL AND SAVAGERY.IF THE APOCALYPSE WAS TO COME TOMORROW, SHE WOULD KILL YOU FOR MEAT, USE YOUR SKIN AS A CLOAK,AND PAINT WALLS WITH YOUR WINE-DARK BLOOD. >>

“Th-this…” you stammer, “…this wa-was a motherfucking _tr-trap_.”

<<IT’S A CALL FOR YOU TO GROW UP.>>

<<YOUR VISIONS OF GODS AND DEMONS ARE DELUSIONS. I KNOW THE WORDS OF DEITIES. WE ARE NOTHING TO THEM; ANTS WALKING ON A VAST SANDY BEACH. WHY YOU WOULD STAND OUT AMONG THE MILLIONS BAFFLES ME TO NO END.>>

<<GODS ARE SPOONS AND RELIGION IS GRUEL. WE SUBSIST ON IT UNTIL WE LEARN TO COOK AND HARVEST FOR OURSELVES. YOU CLUNG TO YOUR CULT TO MAKE IT THROUGH AMETHSYT. IT WAS YOUR SWORD NOW IT IS YOUR CRUTCH.>>

He touches your face. It’s wet and runny. When did you start crying? You’re shaking. You can’t move and you’re afraid for your life. You haven’t felt this way in years. You haven’t even been talking to him for an hour and you’re already sobbing with fear.

<<IF YOU ABANDON MY DAUGHTER AND GRANDCHILD, I WILL NOT KILL YOU BUT I WILL MAKE YOU SUFFER. YOU WILL BEG FOR DEATH AND THEN I WILL STRETCH YOUR AGONY BEYOND THAT BRINK.>>

He shoves you onto your back. You can’t move. Your mind is racing. You can’t fucking _move_.

<<YOU NEED A MOTHERFUCKING REMINDER OF WHO HAS THE POWER. ITS NOT YOU. AND ITS NOT YOUR PATHETIC GODS.>>

And he unzips himself.

“No…” you gasp, “… _no_ … _NO!_ ”

You scramble along the ground on all fours like a frightened animal. He grabs your horns and drags you back to him. His grip’s like iron and your limbs heavy as lead. You know his voodoo is fucking around with your vision because all you see is cold concrete; near darkness except for a dim light above and… oh gods. You’re not in the trailer anymore.

You’re back in Amethyst.

You’re back in the laundry room and you know what’s going to happen. The only difference is that you’re older and now wearing the spray-on jumpsuit. You’re an adolescent and feelings just as afraid and helpless. Kurloz has you pinned to the ground. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

<<WHAT’S WRONG, GAMZEE? I THOUGHT YOU LIKED IT ROUGH.>>

_“Let me go!”_

Kurloz laughs.

<<NOT HAPPENING.>>

You yelp when a claw plunges in your nook. Another hand strokes your bulge. You hear him purring, and moving his fingers and every touch revealing a new yelp or moan. You don’t bother with the voodoo. Not anymore. Right now, you’re trying to get out of his grip.

“I’ll scream.” you rasp, “I’ll _motherfucking scream_ a-and—”

<<WHO’S GOING TO COME AND SAVE YOU?>>

“Kurloz.” You’re pleading now.

<<AND MOST IMPORTANTLY>>

“Kurloz… please… please Kurloz...” You’re begging.

<<WHY SHOULD YOU BE SAVED?>>

“No. _No! Stop! STO—_ ”

He growls and the hand holding your horns moves to muffle your mouth.

<<AFTER ALL THE THINGS YOU’VE DONE>>

<<YOU MOTHERFUCKING _DESERVE_ THIS >>

His bulge doesn’t ram inside you. He roughly eases it inside your nook, making sure to knock against every inch of your insides. You scream through his hand.

<<KANKRI BEGGED DIDN’T HE?>>

<<HE MUST HAVE PLEADED>>

<<HONESTLY GAMZEE>>

<<YOU THINK I WAS GOING TO LET YOU MOTHERFUCKING GET AWAY WITH THAT?>>

<<BE HAPPY THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS MIRACLES GAMZEE>>

<<HOW UNFORTUNATE IT WOULD BE IF YOU GOT KNOCKED UP FROM THIS ACT OF UNDIVINE INTERVENTION>>

You beg and plead but you can’t stop him anymore than you could have stopped the others. The voodoo still has you, dicking around with your sight and senses.You’re not sure if it’s Kurloz fucking you or one of those bastards taking turns. Pain radiates from your pelvis. You hate your body for making you seize up, gulping for air as you climax. His genetic fluids sluice inside of you; cold and filling you with disgust. When he’s done he pretty much tosses you on the floor and you crumple into a heap, too exhausted for anymore tears. You’re too ashamed to even crawl away.

Darkness is swarming over your face. You’re dazed. Is this the voodoo or exhaustion taking you over?

<<GO TO SLEEP, GAMZEE. SLEEP AND LET THIS BE BURIED IN YOUR SUBCONCIOUS. THINK LESS OF YOUR HIGHER POWERS AND DEMONS AND MORE ABOUT HOW YOU’RE GOING TO PROVIDE FOR YOUR OFFSPRING.>>

You fall sleep but not easily.

You dream and return to the old nightmare. 


	3. birthday

**== >Gamzee: Be Gamzee three years into the past **

 

You are fifteen now which means you have spent ten years in here today. Your world is limited in the juvenile facilities here on the island. The juvenile facilities are small because they have a better chance of leaving. Some of them were even born here. You hear rumors about that. Bad rumors about the Snowman and ‘prison grubs’ being sent to the hospital.You don’t like to think about the hospital. The Institute’s hospital is a scary place; scarier than the adult facilities of the Institute.

The adult facilities where you’re going to live from now on. You wish the committee would let you go home but no one will vouch for you; not with your father being the GHB. You’ve never met your father but you’ve made drawings. A white coat told you that he eats kits that don’t follow the rules.

You don’t want to go. You’re scared but you have no choice. A white coat comes in with a guard escort. You already packed your things in two crates. The white coat tells you to be brave because you’re a big boy now. Your cellie says goodbye.

At least you get to ride the karat all the way to the adult sections on the other side of the island. Your bravery evaporated once you get inside the coldblood building. You don’t meet anyone’s eye as they give you the tour. They put you in a cell shared with three larger and much older trolls. You keep your eyes to the ground. Don’t talk much. You’ve learned to be obedient to white coats, guards, and adults or you’ll get in trouble and they’ll send you to the Hospital.

You figure that’s the rule here to.

You don't even last a day. 

Your block is on laundry duty this week so you are in the laundry room doing your part. Everyone has to do their part; that’s how it was in the juvenile section. You’re taking off wet clothes from the washer when you get hit from behind. You struggle but there are five of them. They blindfold you but don’t gag you because there’s no point; one of them paid off a guard so they got a full three hours of fun with you.

Two hours in, the blindfold falls off but they don’t notice or care. You’re too exhausted and battered to fight back. An hour later they leave you on the floor, splattered in genetic fluids. No one comes looking for you and the guards don’t bother. You grind your teeth, claw your arm. You do anything to not cry. You curl into a ball and lay there.

Hours pass. You’re not sure how many. The next troll who enters the laundry room is older and larger than anyone you’ve ever seen. There’s silver in his tangled hair and his body a roadmap of scars. His hand and eye are cybernetic replacements.

“Looks like you just got welcomed to the monkey house, whelp.” he says.

You don’t respond. You remain curled up into your ball.

“You know why they put you down here. You’re a sacrifice. Amethyst only has a finite amount of grubs and juveniles, so they make it themselves when the numbers get too low. You get wriggled up here and they put you in the hospital. Pump you full of fluids and drugs to see what happens or cut you open and see what else makes you tick. There are worse things here.”

That makes you all the more afraid. You start shaking.

“Sit up.”

You sit up slowly, watching him and trying to hide your nudity. He tosses a towel on you.

“Clean yourself up and come on.”

You follow him, not meeting anyone’s eye and staying close to your new protector. His cell is larger and more secluded. The air thick with fear, twisting your already nervous stomach in knots. In the cell, he gives you a pill and a knife.

“If you don’t want to be some fucktard’s bucket, you’ll do as I say.” 

You’re already feeling sick when you swallow the pill and you feel worse afterwards. Blood and fluid drip out of you and you’re not sure if you should feel relief or horror because the thing inside of you is now dead. You’re more wary of the knife though but you get your first taste of alcohol mixed with Faygo to ebb your nerves.

He heats the knife and tells you, “This is going to motherfucking hurt.”

You bite down on a wad of cloth, and drive the blade inside you twice—once on each side of your hips. The second time hurts more. It pierces you, severing the connection between your internal shame globes and your eggsack. No connection to the shame globes; no fertilization and no grubs. You wipe away what blood you can, splash the wounds with grain alcohol. Wipe it away. Let him reheat the blade. Cauterize the wounds with the fuller. You take another swig of alcohol before passing out. 

You’re sick and feverish afterwards but you soldier through it. It’s worth the pain; worth the revulsion of seeing the blood drip out from your sterilized eggsack. The older troll cleans your puncture wounds; watches you sweat out the fever. You wake up and feel like the world has warped.

“Step one is done.” says the older troll. “Now you make those motherfuckers pay.”

This is how you met your father.

 

* * *

 

The knife you used to sterilize yourself is your weapon. Your victims are the five who violated you. They all have to die. Your father says there’s no other way. They all have to pay or you’re no use to him and you wouldn’t be the first of his kin to welch out when it mattered.

This is a test. You’re ready for it. 

You lure your victim the same way you did before, keeping your body language meek and harmless. You let him follow you into the laundry room, and pretend to keep doing your chores. You don’t attack when he touches you. You don’t attack when he calls you his new favorite bitch. It’s when he’s an inch away from your face that you spring into action. The knife goes into the side of his throat. You’re clumsy. You cover his mouth to muffle the scream. He thrashes; claws your face and chest to get loose but you’re angrier and that fuels your strength.

You yank the knife out. Bring it down into his eye; watch it rupture and leak. It’s not a lethal kill but the fucker deserves it. You feel sick but you don’t stop. You raise the knife again. Bring it down again.

And again.

And again.

You can’t even recognize the fucker’s face anymore. You take the knife you murder him with and mark your arm. Your first kill.

One down. Four to go.

The hunt goes on. You don’t keep track of the time; just the kills. Just the marks.

You strangle the second in the showers. 

You castrate the third and let him bleed to death.

For the fourth you get creative. It’s easy to violently poison a troll. Leave shellfish sitting out in the sun for too long, seasoned with tainted meds, stew and serve. You sit in the cafeteria and watch him eat tainted food. Watch his eyes widen and the foam bubble around his mouth as he realizes what’s happening. You feel serenity wash over you as you watch him die. Slowly. Painfully.

Its motherfucking magnificent; a miracle you made happen. This is what it feels like to have the Mirth and Rage coursing through you. This is what it’s like to have the Gold Bitch shower you with her sicknasty favors. 

When you go to your father, you have eight more scars on your body and harsh whimsies swirling in your heart. He smirks at you.

“My son’s finally motherfucking arrived.”

 

* * *

 

And you wake up on Nepeta’s daybed with a pounding headache, feeling like you chugged a goblet of Mirth and Rage’s wicked elixir. You try to remember what happened and your body gives a nervous twitch. You recall Kurloz, the smothering fear, and the darkness. Your perception feels fucked up; the colors not as bright and smells less apparent.

Your body remembers the nightmare more than you do. You try to think harder and you start shaking again. No; it’s not happening. You’re not about to piss yourself trying to recall the thing that shouldn’t be.

Nepeta is snuggled next to you, muttering in her sleep. You grumble and begrudgingly pull her closer. Before you drift off to sleep, you remember Mirth Gras is coming soon. You wonder if they hire for the parade and booths. After all, if you start pulling in money, Tavros’s butterfly Mom will have to start tolerating having you around…


End file.
